Are you Listening?
by Of Germans and Sparkle Parties
Summary: / Various drabbles for various pairings. / Rated for language. /
1. Drabble One! Listening

The brick wall the blonde is pressed against is cold, digging like icy daggers into the small of his back. A breeze is blowing softly, tousling his hair and ruffling the thin, black shirt he wears. Snowflakes catch on his lashes, and he has to blink to clear his vision. Green eyes flit across the forest ahead of him as he waits.

_Damn._

This was much easier to do in the summertime, when he didn't have to worry about freezing his ass off out here. Watching. Waiting.

_Damn._

This had been much easier when he was younger. Admittedly, he wasn't that old, and still he yearned for youth. Things were much simpler then, he mused.

_Damn._

Whose bright idea had it been to wear this short-sleeved poor-excuse-for-a-shirt and khakis outside during a snowstorm? Oh, right. _His._

_Damn._

How long had it been since he had arrived here?

_Damn._

How many nights had he come crawling back here?

_Damn._

How many more nights _would_ he come and cower here?

_Da—_

His thoughts are cut off abruptly as a thunderous sound echoes through the empty, snow covered field. Softly at first, then louder and louder. A crashing, yet melodic sound. The man pushes himself closer against the wall, and now his head resting just below the windowsill.

Inside, his heart hurts. His stomach hurts. His head hurts. He feels wistful, and longs for conversation. He can't remember the last time he actually sustained one, much less a friendship. And yet there is one person in particular that he _wants_ to talk to. But the stubborn man doesn't want to think about his desires at the moment (nor does he ever, for that matter).

He drops his rifle, letting it fall into the snow at his side, and wraps his arms around his knees. The song is much prettier now, and the cold seems much warmer. Sleep doesn't seem all too bad, although he can't say he has ever fallen asleep out here before. He has never dared to risk capture.

And yet, he begins to slowly drift into a black abyss of sleep.

_Damn._

…

The brunette is seated at the piano, pounding viciously at the keys. His brows knit tightly together over violet eyes. Thin, yet broad shoulders are hunched over the ivory keys, swaying in time.

_And then he remembers_.

The man remembers his audience, and his hands move at once up an octave, fingers adjust to a major key. Now the tune is happier, lighter, and very much unlike the harsh winter night. His mind wanders as he plays the familiar tune.

How long has he been doing this?

_A long time_, one could say.

And then the piece is over, drawing to a close on a happy C-major chord. Simple, but sweet. Something he used to play for _him_.

The wind is raging outside, and for the first time he contemplates leaving the warmth to venture outside to meet his audience. He won't confess, but worry has begun to tie his stomach into knots. It's freezing outside, and he is well aware.

The musician slips on his purple coat, fidgets with the ascot around his neck, and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. As a peace offering, he also brings a cup of hot chocolate and some _torte_.

With both hands full, it's a bit difficult for the less-than-muscular man to push open the door, and yet he somehow manages. His thin frame is buffeted by the wind.

"_Hallo—"_

The _torte _falls, followed by the elaborately painted teacup in the man's right hand. At once, the snow beneath his feet is covered in burning liquid and creamy icing. But the man couldn't care less.

He's too busy tapping the blonde.

"_Wake up, this isn't funny,"_ He mutters, barely audible over roaring gusts. He receives no response, and slides the other onto his back.

_Heavy._

A lot heavier than he had thought. But he collects himself (and regains his balance in the most dignified way possible) and carries the man insides. A smile twitches across his face.

"_Just like old times, hm…?"_ There is no response, of course.

The brunette treks up the stairs to a closet, pulling out a few blankets before returning to the blonde's side. He tucks in the other man, and retires to a bulky, leather armchair in the corner of the room.

…

The blonde wakes up to a terrible head cold. He's staring up into the shimmering depths of a gold chandelier. He turns his head slightly, and catches sight of the brunette sitting stoically across from him on the opposite couch. He then turns his head back to the light fixture and says nothing.

In turn, the other man watches the blonde quietly, wondering if he should say something. Ultimately, he doesn't, and the quietness continues. It isn't an awkward silence, or event a contented one. It's just silence.

It would be hours before either one of the men spoke.

…

_**A/N: **_**Well, I decided to start writing drabbles of my various headcanons, and I figured I'd start off with *ahem* **_**Edelweiss**_**.**

_Headcanon: Switzerland often waits outside Austria's house every evening to hear him play, even though the two rarely speak to one another_.


	2. Drabble Two! Lean On Me

_A/N: I wrote this chapter in a platonic sense, not a romantic one, because I really like the sibling relationship between these two._

…

The young woman is curled into a ball in front of the fireplace. Her icy eyes seem as if they would be cold enough to freeze the fire, but they don't. They never do.

She is wrapped in luxurious furs, of what animal she isn't sure of. They're warm, so she doesn't complain. The long haired girl has been sitting there for quite awhile. Just how long is unknown.

She is feeling horrible tonight, as she sits with her back against a leather sofa. The fire lights up the spaces underneath her high cheekbones. Her milky hand rubs on an equally as pale forehead, and she sighs.

It's a defeated sigh.

For this is the night that the woman realizes _it doesn't work_. All the begging, all of the crying and hugging and holding. He isn't going to stop.

Why can't he understand how badly she wants this?

_There must be something wrong with me. I'm not doing enough. That has got to be it,_ she assumes. That doesn't make her feel any better.

Her eyes squeeze shut, fighting back the prickling sensation. The tears still come.

…

It has been awhile since she came to visit him, and the man has just begun to wonder why.

It's a warm night for spring, but it's raining. The water pounding on the roof is beginning to get on his nerves, but at the same time he likes the continuous pattern of _pitter patter, pitter patter_.

His strong hand looks rather humorous, enclosed around a shot glass with his favorite liquor. The rain always puts him in a drinking mood. He claims that it makes the vodka taste better; _stronger_. Clear liquid swirls gently in the cup, lapping against the edges. He likes that, too.

But something is off this evening. It doesn't feel like a day to swig back the alcoholic beverage, and so it is set on the table with a dull clattering. She isn't here. It's quieter that way (not that he likes it like that).

He stares into the glass as it tempts him, and his arm extends which briefly allows his hand to caress the bottle. Lovingly, almost. And then he pulls his hand away, instead grabbing for the phone. Lethargically, his round fingers hit the buttons.

_Ring… Ring… Ring… Ri—_

"Natalya…" He sighs into the phone. There's a small click on the other end, and he waits for her.

…

"Brother."

Her cheeks are still red, eyes puffy. Natalya hopes he can't tell she has been crying, but the small gasps she utters between breaths appear to be a dead giveaway. She doesn't like the look in his eyes; those bloodshot, tired eyes. Her fury changes to a confused, blind anger.

He's always so easily influenced, so easily consumed with his own dark thoughts. He's delicate, despite his massive appearance. She knows this, but something inside of her has snapped this evening.

"You promised," she spits, stumbling back off of the porch. The girl cannot bear to see him like this. "You—You're a _liar_." Her lips are quivering. Even though her vision is blurred, she can still see her brother, feebly clinging to the door frame for support.

"Natalya—" His gloved hand reaches towards her. She swats it away mercilessly.

"Don't even, Ivan," Natalya begs, barely audible over the storm.

She doesn't think she can take it any longer. She doesn't want to hear that slurred voice. She doesn't like him when he's drunk.

"I want your help."

"You say that every time. I don't want to hear your lies anymore."

"I'm not lying this time, Natalya. I mean it."

They're both shouting at this point, but at once, everything seems to go still.

"You said that last time." Her voice catches in her throat.

He pulls her into a hug, his hand on the back of her head. Natalya buries her head in his chest, staining his toffee colored scarf with salty tears.

…

"I will help you through this," Natalya says from her perch on the couch with a hint of ambition in her voice. She's no longer so distraught, instead sipping Russian tea. Her gaze, still entranced onto the fireplace, has lost its icy tinge. The teacup repeatedly clinks against the saucer as her hands shake. "Do you think you can do it, brother?"

Ivan doesn't respond, knowing he won't be able to say the answer she wants him to. He bows his head.

Against her will, she has begun silently crying again, her face turned away from him so he can't see the terror in her eyes. The knowledge that the cycle will repeat itself ties her stomach into knots.

…

_Headcanon: Belarus is constantly mixed up in her brother's issues with alcoholism. She tries to be strong for his sake, but can't help but break down when she's alone._

_A/N: Feel free to request pairings! I'm always looking for new ideas and constructive criticism._


End file.
